My last mental movie

Are you nostalgic? Do you miss things, people, places, and situations that you haven't even experienced or that you shouldn't even miss? I do. And from time to time, any day can turn into a Sunday afternoon. Sunday afternoon. Everyone knows how to identify the type of feeling these two words invoke: those hours designed to rethink your life's goals, reevaluate happiness, and fall into the trap of comparing yourself to others – a bad thing to have social media open. I like reading Alba Tarragó and her Filla Única, because I feel that in her head, an autumn movie is also playing, walking while the leaves fall in our mental Central Park. It doesn't help to write these lines when an electrical storm illuminates the sky, which now becomes dark too early.

This initial digression is not random; it is to explain to you the latest vital anguish that plagues me, which is added to the list of eco-anxiety or the rage over major issues such as access to housing and mass tourism. The other day I went to buy coffee at a small shop, located in the center of Inca, which I love. I like it so much that I wish I consumed coffee to stay there—more than I already do—listening to Miquel's stories, tasting the products, and following the recommendations he offers. A necessary confession for anyone who doesn't know me: I have never tasted coffee beyond a teaspoon. I am a tea fanatic; one of those who has flavors for the afternoon with hints of chocolate, energizers for the morning, matching cups with tins, accessories, and a teapot that, when turned on, lowers my revolutions by ten percent. Luckily, the little shop also sells teas, Espinaler sauce, Panne di Stelle cookies, sauces made with bourbon reduction, and dozens of products that would now be called ‘gourmet’.

And once again, this is not what interests me here. I am drawn to the little universe that gathers there: people who stop by to buy coffee and, while they are at it, have a little chat while Miquel prepares a coffee for them so they can taste the sweet notes of caramel that a new blend he has brought carries. When someone comes to my house, I offer them a cup of Formentó Coffee, 100% arabica –as if I knew what that meant– and I proceed to tell them the history of this coffee, which was devised to accompany the famous conversations at the Hotel Formentor and how it changed the way of roasting the bean in Mallorca to adapt to the palates of the distinguished international guests. Miquel explained it to me one day when he was in no rush: he went over the taste notes, the process of roasting the bean, what it meant for the industry, and how it disappeared until Café Rico recovered its production. Sitting on the bench next to his counter, I listen to him fascinated, imagining a black and white Mallorca, sung by Bonet de Sant Pere, with coffee makers turned into alchemists to receive the most distinguished guests in the north of the island. Miquel recently became a widower, and from time to time we talk about grief, poetry, work, the weather, and also life –a granddaughter of his was born at the same time as my son– and we try to leave the rush parked behind the heavy glass door. Sometimes it doesn't work, and our interactions are purely commercial and quick, painless. At other times, he welcomes me as if I were at home, while I am at my limit, loaded with a purchase that was supposed to be 'just a few little things,' and a boy who rebels even against the air he breathes. Then he makes me a cup of tea and offers a cookie to Marc Martí, and, for me, this improvised pit stop gives me the strength to get home.

What will happen when Miquel is no longer here? I don't know if his children intend to continue the family business, but suddenly a kind of sadness and melancholy invades me. I imagine the brown shop window full of little cups and coffee makers replaced by sterile white lights and skinny mannequins wearing outfits made in Turkey. I don't think the saleswomen at Amancio Ortega's emporium will offer to hold my child while I put on my little backpack or invite me for a cup of tea. They can barely say “Hello” over the strident music and the mountains of clothes that accumulate with the same ease with which they will end up in an African landfill. I am afraid of becoming a person who walks and remembers everything that is no longer there: the sandwiches from Nenas Bocadillo in Palma; the first Japanese restaurant that ever existed; Casa Roca and its brown paper bags; my grandfather's haberdashery. Some time ago I decided to pay a little more –or the fair price– to buy from local shops and avoid doing click whenever I can. Because when a business disappears, a little bit of our DNA that makes us unique as a people, city or country also disappears. Suddenly you find yourself walking through any city that could be Dublin, London or Madrid with the 'same old chains’, the viral shops of the moment –from erotic waffles to mobile phone cases or cured ham– and a blurred identity that makes us all a little more equal and less special.